Between a Rock and a Thousand-Foot Drop
by scarletsnapdragon
Summary: Barry has a huge, neon crush on Oliver Queen.
1. Chapter 1

The first time Barry meets Oliver Queen, he babbles about traffic and apps and obstinate cab drivers. And, really, that's a relief because it means he's not babbling about how Oliver's attractiveness, his very existence, is an utterly unfair and completely unwarranted assault on his peace of mind. How can one man be so hot and why does Barry have to be so susceptible to the particular type of hotness he personifies?

Then Oliver speaks and Barry's lungs forget what he pays them for because _oh god he's a smartass_. Hot and sharp and _look at that adorable quirky thing he does with his eyebrows_.

This man will be his doom.

.

From then on Barry tries very hard to keep the giant, flashing 'Property of Oliver Queen; if found, please return' sign over his head from coming to anyone else's attention. He very deliberately doesn't stare at the billionaire's sublime posterior, or at his equally sublime and impressively nuanced arsenal of grouchy faces, and he _definitely_ doesn't say things like 'you're the pinnacle of human evolution, please do dirty, nasty things to me until I forget my own name.' When his traitorous brain conjures embarrassingly elaborate visions of Oliver working on a Harley, wearing blue jeans that emphasize some of his greatest assets, a white t-shirt he should have known was a size too small at the store, and smatters of engine grease up to his elbows, he…

…actually, he can't remember what he's supposed to think of instead because that image is just uncalled-for, brain, and – uh oh, Felicity's talking to him and it turns out his not-staring at Oliver Queen is just as conspicuous as the staring would be.

Oliver turns a painful-looking not-smile on him and Barry's insides do a triumphant little jig. Take that, good judgment.

.

Barry abandons all pretense when Oliver confronts him about his true identity. Oliver's angry, rightly so, and Barry's ashamed, even though his lies were justified. He tells the truth, lays it all out for Oliver to judge and prays without hope that he'll forgive the deception.

Oliver is not a man who swallows dishonesty easily. Barry can see it in the flat, hard glass of his eyes. All he can do is wait and see if Oliver is a man who understands the necessity of certain kinds of lies.

.

Oliver calls him later that day to invite him to a party at the Queen mansion. No mention of The Deception passes over the phone and Barry takes that to mean that he is.

A man who forgives.

Holy shit, what did he do in a previous life to deserve this kind of punishment? Tantalus had it easy.

"So you'll be there?"

Barry nearly bites the tip of his tongue off to stop a flirty _only if I get to dance with you_ from crashing its way through his lips and snapping the proverbial olive branch Oliver is offering. Instead, he says, "I'd love to," and then his idiot heart adds, "I can't wait to see you," so his equally idiotic brain scrambles for damage control and the best it can come up with is, "And Felicity too! Not just you…"

At least this isn't a video call. Oliver can't watch him turn beet red, scrunch up his eyes, and slap his free hand to his forehead.

It could be Barry's imagination or it could be Oliver's patience dwindling, but Barry thinks he hears a faint sound like a grumpy hum from the other end of the line. When Oliver speaks again, his voice comes from the opposite shore of a new-sprung gulf. Probably because mentioning Felicity had reminded him of the lies.

"Felicity will be glad. I'll see you tonight."

"See you…" and then, after the 'call ended' beep, "Please don't hate me for lying."

.

"You know he's in mad, passionate puppy love with you, right?" Felicity says, light as a balloon with a brick tied to its groundward end.

Oliver smiles and Felicity's heart sinks a little because she'd been fishing for a denial or at least some surprised demurring.

"He'll get over it."

Barry chooses that exact moment to appear in the doorway (ten minutes later than any other guest) in a suit that looks like its maker stitched it together in a fever of divine prescience, specifically to showcase the long, slim lines of Barry Allen's body. Oliver's smile goes all gooey-melty with a hint of that quietly devastating, _it's better not to be with someone I could really care about_ kind of sad.

Oh yeah, he'll get over _that_ easy.

.

Barry winds up dancing with Felicity for a while and a small, dark corner of his mind revels in the irony of Oliver trying to set the two of them up when they're both floundering around in a sea of broody golden boy feels. The rest of him is mortified for a multitude of reasons, chiefly the aforementioned floundering, though his two left feet take precedence whenever Felicity very obviously suppresses a wince.

At least they're not alone in this.

.

It only takes a few moments to assess his heart's danger levels after the chief's call.

He won't be saying goodbye to Oliver.

Barry knows himself, knows when he's crushing and when he's falling and, to put it one way…if Barry were standing on the roof of a thousand foot high skyscraper with a conveniently placed boulder labeled 'for use on Oliver Queen' in the middle, he'd be a lot closer to the ledge than to the boulder. Funny how that can happen overnight when you're an intuitive dork and the object of your attraction sees the deepest, darkest, most desperate version of you and _understands_.

.

He's thinking about Oliver (of course he is), about how the depths of his eyes go down for centuries, about the drawn-bow tautness in his shoulders, about how the Oliver in his memory will always stand solid and unmovable in a center of his own making while the world swirls around him, hungry for the light he carries inside.

He's very pointedly _not_ thinking about the subtle, surprised quirk Oliver's lips would make after Barry laced their hands together for the first time or the way he might sigh dramatically at one of Barry's nerdy physics puns. Or what their first movie night together might lead to.

He's thinking about Oliver (absolutely _not_ about the tragedy of seeing his face everyday on his morning dash past the newsstand down the street from CCPD) when a sharp, sudden pain flares in his neck.

.

Still caught in the grip of whatever sedative put him under and the muted blare of fight-or-flight sirens, he wakes to harsh lighting. There's also some glass cases housing a bow and green-fletched arrows. And _what the hell, is that the Vigi –_

Oliver Queen's face attached to the Vigilante's body. Oliver Queen lying motionless on a flat metal table like the ones at the Central City morgue.

Felicity blocks his view. "Please save my friend," she says, restrained terror in every syllable.

The terror streaking through his veins is nothing like restrained.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> Thank you for reading! If there's anything you particularly liked or anything you think needs some work, please consider reviewing or sending me a PM. I'm especially thirsty for feedback regarding style so that I can continue to refine it.

I'd like very much to do some more Flarrow episode re-imaginings. In fact the plan from the beginning was to get all the way up to The Climb and then go AU from there. The problem is that I watched the LOK finale recently and I may have to write some Korra for a while to exorcise the feels.


	2. Chapter 2

_I usually only work on dead people._

An echoing, paralyzing thought that Oliver can't afford.

Felicity's sharp reproof snaps Barry into action. He won't be the reason she loses her friend.

There are only four things this could be. No, three…two.

One.

"You can save him, right?"

This is an old place. Underground. They have to have rats.

.

Saving Oliver Queen's life will be one of those flashbulb moments that mars the quiet sunlight of an afternoon coffee break with noise and horror for years to come. He'll remember the green leather, the arrows, and the spike of raw, thundering panic when incomprehension gave way to recognition. He'll remember Felicity saying his name and how brave she was, even in the face of Diggle's voice of reason.

He'll remember the _sink_ of the needle into Oliver's neck. Knowing he was right, but terrified that this one, crucial time, science would fail him.

And then the resistance as he carefully (not tenderly, not at all) pulls the bandage off of Oliver's neck. Oliver's grip on his throat and the relief that accompanied it.

.

Even though he deserves it, after the lying, that resounding _I don't_ hurts like a kick to the gut. Arms crossing defensively, Barry takes a deep breath to stave off the irrational wave of emotion threatening to pour out of him. Oliver isn't anything to him, wasn't ever going to be anything to him. The mythical romance between god-like Oliver Queen and mere mortal Barry Allen that he's been telling himself not to daydream about won't ever exist.

Maybe he needed this. Wake-up call.

Yeah.

He was getting too close to the ledge. (If by too close you mean dangling off of it one-handed.)

Yeah.

Time to take a step back.

Barry refocuses on the 'conversation' between Felicity and Oliver.

He won't be the reason she loses him.

"I'm not going to tell anyone, and you don't have to thank me, but you _should_ thank her instead of being kind of a jerk." And then those glass shard eyes are inches from his and the lump is back in his throat as he squeezes out an unsteady, "Mr. Queen."

.

It's easier to think about the Vigilante than it is to think about Oliver. The fact that they are one and the same is something Barry's heart (and therefore his brain, because they're not as separate as Barry likes to pretend) refuses to acknowledge. He can talk about the Vi – _the Arrow_.

In fact his enthusiasm for the Arrow pre-dates his devotion to Oliver by quite a bit, so talking about the Arrow actually helps take his mind off of broken dreams he had no right to in the first place.

When Oliver comes back, he's all business and that suits Barry just fine. He can hide the residual sting of withheld trust (and the little twinge of misplaced jealousy when Felicity mentions island girls, plural, as in more than one) behind interest in Oliver's nighttime occupation. The Arrow is a safe topic.

Barry likes irony.

He also likes Oliver's grumpy face.

Oh hell. So much for taking steps back.

.

Asking Felicity about Oliver starts out as a mix of concern/fellow feeling and a startled attempt to steer her attention away from the project he's working on. It's not that he's trying to hide it from her, exactly. Just. This is for Oliver, from Barry. He wants to keep it that way, even though he does like Felicity very much and the part of his brain that's not delusional knows that if anyone's going to successfully lay siege to the fortress of issues Oliver's built around his heart, it's her.

Not as accidentally as he would like, Barry comes very close to outright telling Felicity that he likes Oliver too. As it is, he's pretty sure she got the message loud and clear. He's more than a little ashamed about that. Felicity didn't deserve it.

Miraculously, they make it to the other side of the exchange as friends. Which shouldn't surprise him. Felicity is grace incarnate after all.

.

He's not going to worry about Oliver, he's not going to worry about Oliver, he's _not_ going to worry about Oliver.

He's not going to worry about Oliver hallucinating when there isn't anything in his blood.

He's as good at not worrying about Oliver as he is at dancing.

.

In the end, Barry almost doesn't say goodbye. It would be easier not to, partly because of certain vexatious _feelings_ and partly because getting Oliver alone is next to impossible, but he (masochist that he is) wants to give Oliver the mask in person. Fortunately, Diggle goes off to do something undoubtedly badass and Arrow-related and Felicity, having correctly interpreted his anxious-Barry fidgeting, decides she absolutely has to have a double espresso banana nut latte, hot, almond-milk-not-whole, from the often understaffed but perennially popular Monkey's Uncle a couple streets over.

As soon as it registers that the two of them are alone, Oliver heads for the hills. Or, more precisely, the stairs.

"Oliver, wait."

Oliver stops and looks at him, resignation in the shuttered panes of his face. Unfortunately Barry's experiencing a network failure.

That's the first time he's ever called Oliver by his name.

"Do you need something, Barry?"

_I need you to remember me_. "I, uh. I have something. For you," he says and holds up a box. For one dreadful moment he expects him not to take it. But then he does, opens it, and stares at the mask.

"Thank you."

Barry doesn't know him well enough to name the change that comes over his face when he says it, but the way the hard edges of his voice soften is unmistakable.

The muscles of his own face stretch and his cheeks burn. "It's a composite material, primarily made up of a carbon fiber polymer, but I played around with a few more mundane synthetic fibers, like polyester, too. It should conform to your face pretty well…."

Oliver does the thing Barry hadn't dared to hope he would; he puts on the mask, and then he smiles. "How do I look?"

_Like an outlaw, like a legend, like a dream I'll go to sleep every night wishing for_. "Good. Really good. In a heroic but still intimidating as hell vigilante kind of way."

Oliver chuckles.

There should be a law against Oliver Queen chuckles. They're a schedule II controlled substance, _at best._

"Thanks, Barry."

"How does it feel?"

"Good. It's light, doesn't impair my vision at all. It's good."

"Good. I'm glad." Barry pauses to run a hand through his hair. Also to give Oliver room to say something more but, of course, he doesn't. What else could he have to say? Don't answer that, brain. "Well, I better get going. If I don't leave soon I won't make it in time to watch the particle accelerator turn on."

"Barry…"

Barry freezes.

"You saved my life. I'm lucky you were here, and I shouldn't have treated you the way I did. I'll be honored to wear this mask."

Suddenly, the raw, nerve-frying tidal wave of emotion that's been building since he met Oliver Queen is too much. To his horror, Barry feels his eyes flood and his chest constrict.

Without a word, Oliver folds him in a hug. Being hugged by Oliver doesn't feel like he imagined it would. It isn't tight and searing. It's gentle and solid and steadying.

It doesn't last. Barry has to go, before he misses his train. Before this turns into a memory that he can't let go.

When he's relatively sure his voice won't wobble, Barry says, "Goodbye, Oliver."

"Goodbye, Barry."

.

After Felicity tells him about Barry, Oliver goes utterly still. He holds in the fury and outrage until she can get Dig to take her home. Then, when he's alone, he releases it all in one blow, fist shattering the closest glass case. The bloom of scarlet across his knuckles is disturbingly satisfying.

He wasn't in love with Barry.

It's not the things he didn't let himself feel or the kisses he never stole that pound in his blood like the beat of a war drum. It's the injustice of a life so full of promise interrupted. A light so bright snuffed out while garbage like whoever was behind the skull mask was allowed to keep spreading their filth.

He wants to wreck a few more cases, maybe the whole room. Instead he wheels over a trash can and starts cleaning, picking up each fragment of glass, one at a time. By the time he gets to sweeping up the smallest pieces he's as numb as he's going to get without alcohol.

Later that night, he pours himself a single shot of whiskey. He raises it, pictures Barry's face, young and open and so relentlessly full of a hope Oliver could never harbor on his own.

Oliver downs the shot. _Here's to hope_.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> Thank you for reading :-)


	3. Chapter 3

Barry Allen's first thought when he wakes up is not, in fact, about Oliver Queen. It's about the crazy people trying to get him to pee.

Nine months.

To Barry no time has passed at all. A few seconds ago he was in his lab with physics spazzing out all around him. Now they're telling him he's been in a coma for the better part of a year.

Life-altering experiences aside, it isn't long before he starts wondering what Oliver might be doing, what stories nine months might have written in his face, in the roll of his gait. Whether he and Felicity are married yet.

But then he has bigger things to worry about, like sudden, lightning-granted superspeed and superpowered bank robbers.

And a death he should have been able to prevent.

He runs to Oliver as much for comfort as for guidance from the Arrow.

.

Only Barry Allen can make him believe like this. If any other coma patient had shown up on the precise rooftop Oliver had chosen to prowl that night, he'd be checking himself into a cushy mental health facility in the Bahamas.

Nine months is a long time to hope, especially for Oliver.

He hadn't given up.

What he'd done was seal away every memory, every not-feeling, every megawatt smile, in a box and cast it into the deepest part of his heart. Now, with Barry standing before him, full of life, full of hurt, and so, so real (_this time_), the box cracks and the contents rush up out of the depths, stronger than they ever were before.

He feels like he's drowning again.

His jaw aches from keeping it all inside.

"So, uh, I'm awake."

Oliver nods. He still can't open his mouth to speak.

"I'm also really fast now."

Barry's waiting. With an effort nothing short of herculean, Oliver makes a strangled noise that's supposed to sound like interest. He clears his throat and yelps, "Fast?"

"Yeah. Look, this is going to sound crazy…." He pauses and Oliver has to fight the ridiculous urge to laugh. "I ran here. From Central City. It only took me an hour."

Okay, maybe he really should look into mental health facilities in the Bahamas. Fortunately, Felicity's voice squeaks into his ear, _"Oliver, is that __**Barry**__?"_

At least he's not crazy.

Probably.

After reassuring her that it was indeed Barry, Oliver cuts the communication line between him and the Foundry. He has a feeling this is going to get private.

.

Barry tells him everything, from his mother's murder and the birth of his quest for the impossible, to the night of the lightning bolt, to the incident with Clyde Marden. There are moments during the telling that Barry's voice stretches thin, like dough pulled so long that the layers separate into strands and start to break.

Oliver can't pretend he wouldn't cry right along with him if he did.

How can he explain to Barry what a gift he is to humanity? How can he make him see the good that he can do, not just by saving lives, but by sharing his phenomenal capacity for hope with the world?

He tries. Maybe even succeeds. That's up to Barry.

.

"Wear a mask."

The world slips into low gear. Oliver's right shoulder starts to twitch. Barry's arm shoots out to stop him from going.

_Please don't go yet, I don't want to be alone right now, I never asked for these powers, I never asked to be something inhuman, I never asked for this __**burden**__. Please stay with me until I'm okay again._

"Oliver, wait."

Oliver stares at him, unnaturally still, for what feels like an eternity. With a sinking feeling, Barry realizes he's talking in superspeed. Oliver can't understand him, maybe can't even hear him. It takes a huge, concentrated effort to get back to normal speed, and when he manages it, it feels profoundly wrong.

Barry breaks down right there, and Oliver's arms are instantly around him again.

.

The world is ending.

That's what it feels like to Oliver when Barry sobs into his shoulder like there's a knife in his gut.

.

"I'm sorry," Barry finally says, when the tears are mostly dry and he's been quiet for a while. (The tears on his face, that is. The stain on Oliver's suit is probably never going to come out. Barry's pretty sorry about that. He likes the Arrow suit, in particular the way it's shaped like Oliver, very much.)

Oliver only shakes his head, looking up at the stars. He has one of Barry's hands in his. That's nice.

That's very nice.

Out of nowhere, Oliver asks him, "Barry, what's the brightest star up there?"

Barry glances at him sidelong. "The brightest one we can see is Sirius, that one over by the moon – you see it? – but there are much bigger, hotter ones out there that we can't see because they're too far away. The biggest are called hypergiants. The hottest are class _O_, under the Morgan-Keenan system. Why do you ask?"

Oliver's lips curve subtly. "Just curious."

Barry doesn't bother to waste time wondering about this latest Oliver Queen inscrutability. He's got a much bigger fish to fry. Steeling himself with a deep breath, Barry withdraws his hand from Oliver's, squares his shoulders and takes the plunge. "In case you haven't noticed, I kind of maybe might have these giant, unruly, dinosaur-puppy feelings for you."

Dinosaur-puppy? What the heck is that even? If Barry's superpowers extended to melting into a puddle at will, he would do it right then. In fact, that sounds like an avenue to explore, in preparation for future bouts of sudden onset _lunacy_.

Oliver's smile widens, against his own wishes. "You don't say."

Barry ignores him and continues, before his nerves get the best of him and he has to run to the other side of the world, find a rock and get used to thinking of the space under it as home. "And I was kind of wondering if maybe you might have some similar feelings for me."

Oliver sighs. "Barry…I'm not good at caring for people."

Barry feels his face fall. He can't help it.

"That's not – what I mean is, I don't do relationships well. I end up hurting the people that I care about. I don't want you to be one of the people I hurt."

Time to spin the Wheel of Emotions Precipitated by Oliver Queen. The marker lands on the line between Irritation and Anger, two new additions from the last time he played. They're right smack in between Cautious Affection and Flaming Hot Lust, which used to be neighbors.

"So, what you're saying with your convoluted, Oliver Queen logic, is that you do like me but I can't handle you?"

"No, Barry, what I'm saying is, you have responsibilities in Central City and I have an obligation to Starling, and I think we should keep it that way."

"There is no way to pull that interpretation out of what you _just_ said. I'm calling bull."

Oliver gapes at him a little. Seriously, has no one else ever called him on his shit? Surely Felicity at least would have put an end to this martyr nonsense.

Barry detects a note of testiness when Oliver responds. "Call whatever you want, but even you can't deny that you don't know yourself anymore, the limits or lack thereof of your powers, your role in this world and how it might change as a result of your actions. How are you supposed to figure all that out if you're thinking about me all the time?"

Barry opens his mouth for an angry retort (something about how conceited that sounded).

Closes it.

That is an uncomfortably good point. Barry _doesn't_ know the new him and how he fits into the post-particle accelerator world of metahumans and mayhem. This really _isn't_ a good time to throw himself into a long-distance relationship.

His brain can comprehend that. Appreciate it even. But how is he supposed to accept it? And why is it so easy for Oliver to accept? Why is it so easy for him to dismiss Barry when he _knows_ he's suffering?

"I do have feelings for you, Barry, feelings that go a long way down for how little we know each other," Oliver admits in that gentle rumble Barry could listen to for days on end, "But the fact of the matter is, neither one of us is in a position to start a relationship right now. I'm sorry."

It's quiet then, while Oliver broods and Barry seethes under a night sky that's gotten a lot colder in the last few minutes. He's not completely sure who he's so mad at. Oliver, sure, but not only him. Fate or destiny or whatever, too.

"I guess that's it then. I better get back."

"Barry, you can still come to me, anytime you need to talk. I'll listen, and if I can help, I will."

"Just don't ever mention my squishy, gross feelings? Yeah, thanks but no thanks."

In the fraction of a second before the world blurs around him, Barry looks back at Oliver. His face is tilted up toward the stars, expression indescribably sad.

Bitterness is not an emotion Barry indulges very often. It makes him feel petty, dirty even.

As soon as he gets home, he's going to take a long shower. Maybe several.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> Thank you for reading!

I've already written the next chapter, but I wrote it before I wrote this one. Sigh. So I have to go through and make sure everything aligns the way it should. I'll try to have it ready in another day or two. (I posted a preview on tumblr if you're curious. My tumblr handle is pearlsapphiresnapdragon.)


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